


Long Time Coming

by oceaxe



Series: Lovekit [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: First Times, Lovekits, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 10:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13973271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Arthur is circumspect. Arthur has boundaries. Arthur won’t let things get out of hand.(Eames is wrong about all of these things)





	Long Time Coming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoffeeWithConsequences](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Transit & Transition 2: Hotel DeLuxe (formerly MyBunny LoveKit)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13773921) by [CoffeeWithConsequences](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences). 



> This is a companion piece of sorts to CoffeeWithConsequences' MyBunny Lovekit fic, set at the same hotel and with the same Lovekit. 
> 
> Thanks to Fiamac for the brainstorming and Deinvati for cheerreading and advice!
> 
> The hotel is Hotel DeLuxe in NW Portland and here's a link to explain the "honor bar": http://www.oregonlive.com/trending/2017/02/portland_hotel_honor_bar_valen.html

The hotel room is nice enough, Eames supposes. It’s just that there’s only the one room. Why had he agreed to do this job with the notoriously tight-fisted Strindberg? Frankly, he would have preferred a cheaper hotel with his own room. But it’s only a few days, a quick in-and-out job and if he has to share, at least it’s only with Arthur. 

Arthur is circumspect. Arthur has boundaries. Arthur won’t let things get out of hand. 

He flops down on the bed closest the loo and waits for Arthur to make it up to the room. Arthur duly appears about half an hour later, while Eames is investigating the “local honor bar.” It’s full of Portland-made liquor with terrible names, and a couple of odd little boxes. 

“Want a drink?” Eames offers, holding up a Burnside bourbon and a Union gin. “We may have to mix them with kombucha or kale smoothie, heaven help us.” 

Arthur reaches over to snag the gin and cracks it open, downing it in one gulp. 

“Long flight, I presume,” Eames murmurs as he prepares his own drink, opting for the bourbon mixed with coffee concentrate. “Think they’ll restock these as we drink them?” he asks, mostly rhetorically. 

Arthur drops his suit bag on the other bed and comes back over to the mini-fridge. “What are those?” he muses, looking up with an innocent expression while pointing to the boxes, emblazoned with the word ‘lovekits.’ Eames barks a surprised laugh; it’s not like Arthur to play coy. 

“Oh look, there’s a his and hers, how heteronormative,” he replies, trying to avoid thinking too hard about the purpose of those little boxes. He fervently wishes his sex drive weren’t through the roof at the moment.

Arthur picks them both up and looks at them speculatively. “What’s a Tenga Egg?” He raises an eyebrow at Eames. For some reason, Eames finds himself feeling defensive, as if he were the one who’d ordered the damned things and put them in the minibar. 

“I have no idea, love,” he says and takes a sip of his drink. “Some kind of vibrator, perhaps.” 

“Hm. It’s $18, can’t be a very good one.” Arthur loosens his tie and sits cross-legged on his bed, pulling out and flipping open his laptop. Within a minute, he’s totally absorbed and Eames sighs in relief. He stretches on the bed, still tight from weeks of working out. His last job had required him to act the part of the muscle, tight vest and tats out. Topside gigs were barely worth it, but at least he’d gotten some definition back. And a fuckton of testosterone, incidentally.

He clicks on the telly and starts flipping through, settling on the Olympics. It’s the freeskate in the men’s division and jesus christmas, Rippon has a tight arse. His lithe form and in-your-face twink flirtatiousness have Eames’ dick hardening in no time flat. A little surreptitious stroke through the trousers won’t be noticed by Arthur, who is staring fixedly at his screen. 

His cock isn’t satisfied by such scant attention, though, and Eames finds himself firming his touch. Rippon’s slim back and incredible flexibility only remind him of someone he would very much like to fuck, someone he can almost smell right now, someone sitting only a few feet away. The illicit nature of what he’s doing only makes it hotter. 

Arthur has never given a sign that he even has a sex drive. If at any point, during all the jobs they’d worked together, he’d shown a glimpse of sensuality, Eames had missed it. And Eames has been looking. During all the jobs they’d worked together. Which have numbered quite a few. 

So he knows his attentions are likely not welcome, and so he should definitely not be doing this. But he’s doing it, and his hormones really, really don’t want him to stop. He’ll stop in a minute. Any minute now. Fuck, his hand feels good, cupping his balls as they tighten up. 

Eames makes a silent, half-hearted resolution to go rub one out in the shower, as his cock is practically bursting out of his trousers at this point, and he’s quite sure he’s a bit flushed. But the thought of coming back into the room in a towel, naked while Arthur’s still dressed, is somehow both horrifying and also terribly diverting, and he keeps thinking about that while continuing stroke himself with slow, furtive movements, one eye making sure that Arthur is still tappity-tapping on his little keyboard.

Then Arthur closes his laptop and Eames’ hand freezes, and Eames’ blood as well. He tries to subtly turn and adjust himself. But nothing happens except that Arthur straightens his legs and leans back against the headboard, watching the tv silently. Javier Fernandez is up and he’s a stunner. It’s almost too much sensory input--one dark haired, dark-eyed beauty on the screen and another one within arm’s reach.

In the middle of his skate, Arthur asks, “You mind if I change this?” 

“Go right ahead,” Eames says, his voice a little too rough and low. It’s all for the best that they watch something else. His cock needs to deflate or he’s going to pop his load in front of Arthur and then where will they be? What on earth was he thinking? He closes his eyes and wills his erection down. 

Suddenly he hears moaning. His eyes fly open and he looks over at Arthur, who is clearly (and sadly) not the source of the moaning. He’s still relaxed against the headboard, tie off and shirt unbuttoned. Three buttons undone. This is the equivalent of nudity for Arthur. The moaning happens again and Eames realizes that Arthur’s switched on porn.

Gay porn.

A stacked, tattooed bloke has a slender, gamine thing bouncing energetically on his lap, eagerly taking what looks to be 10 inches of solid, glistening flesh. The slapping noises of groin meeting arse ring through the hotel room. His mouth agape, Eames looks back over at Arthur, whose face is impassive, gaze fixed on the telly, and who is slowly and methodically unbuttoning the rest of his buttons until his shirt is entirely open. He’s not wearing an undershirt. 

Eames doesn’t have time to mentally catalogue the wonders of his smooth, firm chest as Arthur is now working at his belt. Slipping the tooth out of the buckle, pulling it aside and freeing the fastenings on his trousers. He shimmies out of them and Eames’ erection is back (as though it ever really left, not bloody likely). Grey boxer-briefs sheathe slim hips and an arse that won’t quit. And a nice bulge; better than nice, filling out the front placket deliciously and gracing it with a sizable wet spot that Eames wants to suck on. 

What in bloody hell is going on? 

“Arthur…” he manages, sort of. It’s a strangled sound and he’s not surprised when Arthur doesn’t reply. Or perhaps he does reply, but his reply is to push the briefs down around his thighs and take his cock in hand.

“You can get yours out, too,” he says, voice maddeningly deadpan. “I saw you touching yourself over there.”

Eames makes an involuntary sound, a grunt crossed with a moan. Arthur glances over at him, the barest hint of a smile on his lips, then looks back at the screen and starts stroking. 

There’s no time to wonder how he managed to see Eames stroking himself--he must have the peripheral vision of a rabbit or a field mouse. Although, to be honest, it’s Eames who feels like the prey in this situation. Or maybe a lab rat.

Well, if Arthur wants to experiment, so be it.

He shucks his trousers and pants and all but rips his shirt off, lying back naked on the bed with his cock surprisingly a little less than half-cocked now. This situation is so very, very odd and so very, very not what he expected, not at all. He stills the part of his mind that says, “This isn’t how I wanted it to go,” and looks over at Arthur, head tilted back and staring at the television with heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth open and his fist slowly rising and falling in his lap. 

It’s a mesmerizing sight. Eames watches the head, which is slick with precome, appear and disappear like magic. Similarly like magic, his own cock recovers and he gets a grip on it, not even bothering to pretend to look at the action on screen. Arthur’s posture shifts into something a little more self-aware, performative. He’s still not looking at Eames, not really, but now Eames can tell that everything he’s doing is very much directed at him.

“What is this?” he asks as his hand slides up and down. He’s a little raw, due to all the friction from his clothes and he winces. Arthur’s gaze flicks over to him. 

“A little chafed? You should get one of those boxes.” 

Eames sees that Arthur is not going to acknowledge the profound weirdness of what’s happening; he’s playing some kind of game. (Arthur! Playing a game! The thought of it alone is erotic in how unprecedented it is.) So, game as ever, Eames goes to the fridge to fetch a box of toys, and why they’re in the fridge is anyone’s guess. He makes sure to stand so as to set his body off to its best advantage, feeling Arthur’s eyes on him the whole time. 

“Eighteen dollars is a little pricey for lube,” he says while reaching for the “his” box, ignoring the fact that he has lube in his suitcase. Arthur doesn’t need to know how much he’s been wanking lately. The couple on the screen is grunting and moaning and it goes right to Eames’ reptilian brain, keeping him hard even while feeling self conscious and exposed. 

“What else is in the box?” Arthur asks, his voice lower than usual and languid with pleasure. 

Opening the box reveals a strange egg-shaped object, a tiny phial of lube and a condom. Eames turns around, holding the egg out, which is labeled “Easy Beat EGG - Thunder.” He raises his eyebrow at Arthur. “Open it up,” Arthur says, and it honestly sounds like an order, and Eames honestly has no problem with that at the moment. 

It is an egg, an egg with a little tube in one end, and- oh, it’s more lube. He tosses the condom and the first packet of lube on the bed so he can open the egg’s little tube, and Arthur gets up on all fours to reach across and snag it. Eames watches this cat-like stretch, a display that would be have been fetching had Arthur been fully clothed. As Arthur is currently naked, it’s more like an erotic tableau envisioned by Klimt. 

Eames swallows as his cock throbs and twitches. Arthur watches it. “You’re uncut.” 

“Yes,” Eames says dumbly. At another time, in another place, Arthur’s observation might seem gauche, unworldly. Of course he’s uncut, he’s British. Here and now, though, it reveals a welcome curiosity. Yes, please, Eames wants to say. If you like foreskins, please investigate. Ask me anything.

“Open the tube,” Arthur suggests firmly. Eames fumbles with it, nearly dropping the Egg. But suddenly it cracks open and wet clear fluid spills over his hand and into the open maw of the … wank sleeve? 

“Is this a--?” Eames trails off and Arthur says, “You slide your cock in it.” 

He’s looking at Eames expectantly, his cock in his hand, slicking it up with a faint squelching noise. Eames licks his lips and stares for a second, and Arthur slows down, sliding his other hand down his flank and over his hip in a blatantly provocative way.

“Your cock is pretty big,” Arthur says, the magic words every man longs to hear, as his left hand plays with his balls. Long fingers shining with lube pull and stroke his cock, his hips thrusting languidly as he stares at Eames’ groin. “I wonder if the Egg can take all of it. Show me.”

Eames’ eyes flutter shut and he nearly comes on the spot. Arthur is so much more filthy than he would ever have dared imagine. 

He opens his eyes and meets Arthur’s hot, heavy gaze. “Get on with it,” Arthur growls. “It won’t bite you.”

Now, Eames knows he has a bit of a thing for being bossed around. It constitutes about half his attraction to Arthur. So discovering that Arthur is not only a sexual creature, not only wanton and exhibitionistic but also a dominant, seems almost too good to be true. Instinctively, Eames tugs at the reins to see how far Arthur is willing to go.

“If you don’t put that thing on your cock right now, Eames, I’ll come over and do it for you.” He’s flushed and his hand is moving faster, but his voice is deadly serious. Eames’ cock twitches. Part of him wants to force Arthur’s hand, but the other part, the part that likes pleasing people, that loves surprising Arthur, takes over. 

The Egg feels like a cool, sloppy kiss on the head of his penis, odd but not unpleasant. He pushes it down and feels something inside, pressure points and nubs, and it’s good. His eyes close again as his hand tightens around the spongey sleeve. 

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Eames’ eyes fly open. Arthur isn’t meeting his gaze, however; he’s riveted to Eames’ hand on his cock. “Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels good,” he says, his voice rough. “It feels better than I thought it would.”

Arthur licks his lips. “How far down can it go?”

Eames forces it down, getting it about two thirds of the way over his cock before the pressure on the head is unpleasant. 

“Not far enough.” 

Arthur smiles. “Lay down on the bed. Fuck yourself with it.”

Eames does as he’s told, pushing up into the slick, bumpy sleeve, tightening his hold on his cock and twisting as he pumps. Arthur’s eyes are devouring him, his hand a blur on his cock. The dusky head is dripping wet now, Eames can see the precome drooling out of it. He wants it in his mouth, but before he can ask, Arthur is jetting come over his fist, grunting low and soft. The sight of it overloads Eames’ nerves and he, too, spurts his load into the depths of the sleeve, the added wetness making sloppy sounds as he pumps the last of his orgasm out.

“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur mutters as he collapses to the bed. His eyes are closed and his chest moves up and down. Eames looks at him with a growing sense of unease. What the hell just happened here? 

“That was a relief,” Arthur murmurs, rolling over and opening his eyes, fixing Eames with a drugged stare. “I’ve been so horny for the last week, you have no idea.”

“I…” Eames can’t think of what to say to that. “Glad to be of service.”

Arthur smirks and his eyes slide shut again. 

Eames gets up and goes to the washroom, his legs slightly wobbly and his head spinning. As he wets a washcloth and wipes himself clean, he feels a frisson of excitement. They’re here for another four days. 

And nights.

He tosses the washcloth in the corner near the bath and gets another one damp. Returning to the room, he sees that Arthur has rearranged himself on his bed, his eyes still closed. Eames pads over and drapes the wet cloth over the patch of drying come on Arthur’s groin, and Arthur startles and stares at him, then down at the cloth.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his lips twisting into a sweet smile. He puts his hand over the cloth and rubs it around, the come smearing over the dark hairs of his joytrail. Unaccountably, Eames’ cock twitches again. Arthur tosses the cloth to the floor and pulls the bed covers over himself, turning away and burrowing into the pillow.

“Turn the lights out, Mr. Eames.” 

Once again, Eames does as he’s told. 

Lying there in the dark, with Arthur’s sated, naked body two feet away, Eames still doesn’t know what to think. 

Sleep is a long time coming.


End file.
